


You are sure to find (If you walk long enough)

by Spylace



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Gen, Herding Cats, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Torture, Memory Loss, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Past Brainwashing, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Memories, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:25:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1489912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is healed through the power of kittens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You are sure to find (If you walk long enough)

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-slash if you squint. 
> 
> Inspired by many hopes and dreams on tumblr that Bucky can have happy ending. I swear, at first I was going to give him two kittens. Two. Max. But like a crazy cat lady, Bucky demanded more cats. So more cats. You’re welcome.
> 
> Unbetaed, all mistakes are mine.

He startled when he heard a noise, gun pointing squarely at its source.

It was a cat. He stared at it in fascination. It was a dandy little thing, rich brown with eyes the color of the summer sky. _A looker_ —his mind supplied unhelpfully. Something special. Someone to take _home_.

But the cat was an anomaly, out of place in the stagnant life he had carved out for himself. He stayed because he thought no one would look for him in the sad, dilapidated room he rented and no one had until now. The cat snuck up boldly and sniffed the barrel before turning away, more interested in the sandwich he left out on the counter. It was something he received when returning from the Smithsonian and its confusing myriad of images in red, white and blue. He didn’t know what to do with it or even what it was. But the cat clearly did and it made quick work of the brown paper bag, pulling out the slices of ham and gobbling it up before his eyes.

Satisfied that there was no more left, it leapt to the window in a single bound and disappeared through the metal grating. A kindred spirit of sorts he thought. He couldn’t have made the exit better himself.

James picked up the mess of bread and vegetables and took a bite.

It was good.

 

The cat came back the next day like a buyer expecting to be wooed. It sampled the local cockroaches and spent time exploring a hole in the wall with its paws. He suspected that it had cornered a mouse or a baby rat. His room was a bargain at five dollars a day and despite his fastidiousness, he had persistent guests.

James sat quietly on a couch that had seen better days when the cat landed on the opposite end with a chirp, tail curled tight like a question mark. It tested the spongy cushions before winding itself past his feet. The fur tickled and he curled his toes as the cat rolled over exposing its belly, rabbiting the air as though expecting to be loved or petted.

He didn’t know how to do either and settled just for watching.

Eventually the cat tired and left with a sulky glare.

He was no good for it anyway.

 

“Cat” He greeted when he saw it again, surprising himself with the sound of his own voice. The cat rubbed its head against his ankles in delight, oblivious to the conflict the single word brought. He massaged his throat and felt the scratchiness of skin. _Shave_ , he thought. He needed a shave. Being poor was no excuse for poor hygiene. But he soon lost the train of thought.

The cat didn’t seem to mind the silence as he lathered himself in the kitchen sink. It chatted up a storm and he imagined it was telling him about the fellow strays in the neighborhood, the best place to catch sunlight, the pigeons it had stalked and missed.

After washing his face, he reached for the towel. He grabbed the cat instead. It purred when his fingers closed halfway, scratching itself against them by arching its back. The cat nibbled on his metal fingers as a sign of affection and purred when he rubbed it behind the ears.

He smiled.

 

The cat came back the next day and the next and the next.

It seemed to like him contrary to all expectations or at least it liked his food which was all he could ask of the single creature who didn’t mind what he was.

On his third trip to the Smithsonian, he happened to look up at the TV and saw that target Alpha had been released from the hospital. He looked well, only a slight discoloration around the temple marring his handsome face. James felt bad for it but hoped that the man got what he wanted.

His friend died a long time ago.

When he got back to his place, the cat was there. The cat had a friend. The friend was another cat, a neurotic gray that rocketed everywhere in manic bursts of energy.

The two cats stalked a palm-sized roach together before losing interest. He prepared lunch for both, hot dogs from a store that didn’t mind he paid with crumpled bills that smelled like cannabis. He peeled the sausage from the sticky buns and let the cats have them.

Afterwards, they curled on the couch together, brown-and-white on top. The gray sprawled across his stomach like a favorite ragdoll, completely limp. It made him think that the gray might have been someone’s pet before whatever circumstances left it out in the cold.

“Cat” he said out loud and the two meowed lazily in response.

Names, he needed names for them both.

But what right did he have conferring names upon two creatures? Maybe they already had names but like him, was unable to voice them out loud. The gray could be something straight from the old country like Thomas or William or Howard. The brown-and-white might be anything from Blackbeard, Calico Jack or Dancing Bear.

He decided, he wouldn’t say them out loud. If he decided. That way, he could tell them apart but the cats would be free to be themselves. They wouldn’t have to live with the impossibility of living up to a silly name like James Buchanan Barnes. A good man like James Buchanan Barnes. A dead man like James Buchanan Barnes.

 

He took a pamphlet on his fourth trip to the Smithsonian because it featured a wide portrait of the man behind the mask, before and after, and he hoped that if the target was right, the pictures would help him _remember_.

They didn’t but he carefully taped it up on the wall so he could look at it while sitting down. “He is my mission.” He told the cats. The gray yawned and kneaded his stomach “He was my friend.”

His words felt hollowed out and empty. He didn’t remember having a friend. James tried to console himself before reading the pamphlet out loud, reiterating the heroics of Captain America and his Commandos to his feline audience.

It was difficult to shape his mouth around the anecdotes that had obviously been sanitized for public consumption. The glossy pages held none of the grueling realities of war. Battles were never that clean or orderly and Captain America wasn’t always there to save the day.

The cats purred unconcerned at his ramblings. James fed them until their bellies were taut and fell asleep curled around them.

The next morning brought new visitors.

 

Sometime in the night, a cat moved into his apartment with her three kittens and decided build a nest against his back. He laid obligingly still as she busied herself, carrying her kittens in one by one. There was one girl, one boy and a runt the same curly yellow as his mama. Brown-and-white and the gray came to investigate and she hissed even as brown-and-white hissed back, laying a proprietary claim on his shoulder by scratching it.

“Punk.” He scolded, grabbing brown-and-white by his middle and tucking him close to his chest. “That’s a lady you’re talking to.”

Brown-and-white puffed up to twice his usual size but subsided grudgingly when he scratched behind his ears. He meowed in obvious disagreement as the gray sat beside him waiting for his share of petting.

“Be nice if you want to take her for a dance.”

 

His left side was numb.

The brown-and-white or _Mishka_ as he liked to call him inside his head, hated the mama cat but adored her kittens as if they were his own. He fawned over them from afar and left them gifts in the form of still twitching bugs. Mama cat was hardly pleased at this underhanded means of winning her children’s favor and smacked Mishka whenever he poked his head over his shoulder.

But she missed often than not, drawing blood and leaving tiny pinpricks all the way down his spine. Mama cat was touchier than a seep in water and sometimes she left her post to stretch or to groom herself on the sofa arm. In the sunlight, her curly yellow fur looked like soft fleece and he longed to touch it though he never did. She had never given him a reason to think that he was allowed to and as the days went by and the kittens became more active, she stayed away longer and longer until one afternoon, he found her gone with the kittens stirring on his chest.

What should have been a sign of trust inspired panic instead. Other cats like Mishka and Howard were big and scrappy and could run away if he slipped into his blank persona. The kittens on the other hand were so little, their eyes barely open and helpless with their pink noses and tiny mouths.

The first time mama cat left her post, he laid shock still and bug-eyed. Mishka was in the throes of ecstasy as he curled around them, tucking them under his bottle brush tail like a brooding hen. Eventually, he got used to it. He didn’t go out anymore and sometimes, either Mishka or the gray stayed to keep him company. If the mama cat was out for the night, they slept together in a pile. James wished Mishka would stop storing his mice in his mouth.

Real trouble began when mama cat decided for whatever reason, the runt was not worth it.

James woke up one morning with a kitten suckling his ear. It was the runt and when he tried to return it, got scratched for his troubles. He insisted; he’d had worse before.

He set the runt down between his brother and sister and he quickly burrowed into their shared warmth, drinking gustily until his tummy was round and taut. He must have been hungry. The mama cat pushed him out of the way once he was done as though she had never seen him before and tolerated him only for propriety’s sake. James held her face back and nudged the runt back into place.

“Don’t be like that.” He suddenly said out loud, voice rusty from disuse. Mama cat’s ears flickered towards him. “He’s your kid. He’s a fighter, just like you.”

The mama cat allowed the runt back to her side with ill-grace.

Later, James frowned when he found the runt squeaking under the couch.

 

He started having blackouts. It wasn’t anything new. They weren't serious so he did not worry.

But Mishka thought differently and batted his nose until he woke up. He was horrified when he discovered that he had called the cat by his name but Mishka did not seem to mind. He sheathed his claws when he bopped him on the head to let him know that he was being stupid.

James stared blearily. He did not understand.

Mishka let out a hungry meow.

James tried to sit up but it was hard. The metal arm was heavy, the nerves deadened from lying on his side too long. He groped the seam of his shoulder until he found a groove where the plates overlapped, a release mechanism that freed him from its weight. The metal arm landed with a heavy thunk and the mama cat hissed before hiding behind him, her children staring curiously at the disconnected limb.

He felt dizzy but he could breathe easier. His wallet was empty after paying the week’s rent. They needed money. He turned his head and found the runt in Mishka’s care, tiny and disheveled between two enormous paws. His heart leapt to his throat.

The runt was hungry. He couldn’t eat what Mishka brought back from the outside. James cradled him in his right hand and he mewed, mouthing at his thumb.

What did kittens eat? Milk, he guessed but he didn’t have any. Mama cat had some but she wouldn’t share. It stood to reason that he should find someone who would. But James did not know anyone in this strange new world. The one thing he remembered was meeting his handler late at night and two fingers of milk in a tall glass.

But if he took the runt, he should take them all just in case. He observed the room with a critical eye and found it wanting. This was no place for cats or kittens. He couldn’t even feed them. He stroked a finger over the runt’s head and down his back. The yellow fur sparked recognition in him but he wasn’t sure what.

It didn’t matter. He was a weapon, a bullet or a missile in the right place. He didn’t do long-term strategies. That was up to his handler. His handler gave him an objective and he fulfilled it.

_So figure out what that is stupid._

Take the cats to safety.

Mishka stood on his hind legs, holding on to his wrist.

First, he needed a way to carry them all.

 

People did a double take when they saw him walk down the street, a cat perched on his shoulder and a second hanging halfway out of his collar. Every once in a while, the mama cat too would peer out at the world from the gym bag and saw how bright it was. People were kind when they saw how quickly he tired and offered to help but he refused them. He didn’t want to hurt any more people than he already had.

James remembered Steve and the apartment he lived in but everything seemed so different from the ground level. He got lost, crossed the same road twice. The cats were having a blast, Mishka a regular chatterbox beside him. He thought about giving up and returning. But now that they were outside, he couldn’t bear thinking about returning to the decrepit room and its molding walls. He didn’t miss the roaches either.

“Hey soldier, need a ride?”

A car pulled up by his side, its windows blackened. His guard went up instinctively at the sight and he stepped backwards, nearly dislodging Mishka from his shoulders. Mishka yowled and spat, glaring haughtily down at the stranger inside the car. The man looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place him. Maybe he had been with one of his past targets. Or maybe he was one of those targets Hydra had drawn up on a long list of people to be terminated as necessary.

Or, he froze, he could be Hydra.

He was out in the open carrying three cats, three kittens, a Beretta and a knife jammed into his boot. He was missing an arm with nowhere to go, nowhere to run, despite the urban sprawl of DC all around him, he was trapped like a mouse was trapped in one of Mishka’s little games. He could let the cats go and they would be safe. Mama cat would abandon the runt sooner or later but at least she, the little girl and the boy and Mishka and Howard would be safe. He gulped the air, when the car door opened and Stark stepped outside, a calming hand on his arm and a quick squeeze.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not it. Just hear me out alright?”

“I could break your neck.” James said in horror.

Stark cracked a bitter smile.

“But you won’t, will you?”

He calmed.

“No I won’t.”

“You’re lost.” Stark said frankly. “Steve’s apartment is on the other side of the city. I can give you a ride if you want.”

James looked at Mishka who bopped his head again and down at the gym bag where a glint of Constance's green eye could be seen through the zipper. Something told him he didn't have to do it alone. They were all in this together for better or worse. And he was trying to be better, he really was.

Stark clapped his hands when he nodded.

“Right, Happy, to the Fortress of Solitude on the double.”

He let Mishka and Howard out in the backseat but they mostly stuck to his side, regarding leather seats and Stark with extreme prejudice. The other man grimaced when he saw Howard test his claws against the upholstery and James fought hard to stifle his laughter when the cushions parted neatly like butter.

The ride was smooth despite the passengers in it and in spite of himself, James fell asleep.

 

“ _Why... why, why on Earth would you do that_?”

“ _He was trending as the homeless cat guy. How could I resist seeing my mortal enemy?_ ”

“ _So you brought him here?!_ ”

James listened to the conversation with half an ear through the bathroom door. Whatever the two men were arguing about, it seemed to involve him. But he would be out of their hair soon enough once he delivered the cats safe in Steve’s capable hands.

He decided that they might need a wash and turned the water on inside the tub. The first handful he drank. And the next, and the next. It tasted wonderfully clear and by accident, he knocked over one of the bottles which spilled into the warm water creating a froth of white-washed bubbles.

Soap. It smelled nice. He stepped inside, dirty clothes and all. When Howard came to investigate, he scooped him up and lowered him until his toes touched the water. Howard whined, tail tucked and toes curled. But he unwound under his hands, seemingly appreciating the warmth as he scrubbed him clean.

Outside, a door opened and shut, barely discernable footsteps belying deadly grace. He frowned. It was getting awfully crowded in Steve’s apartment.

Like the man who’d answered the door, a female voice began with a flat “ _I told you not to let him in._ ”

Mishka bore his attentions stoically. He was half his usual size now that he was wet, closer in weight-class to Constance who seemed to be laughing from the safety of the laundry basket. Mishka bore everything with dignity before climbing on top of his head. Water dripped everywhere and he sneezed, scattering bubbles all around the bathroom.

The girl kitten, the boy kitten and the runt scampered around, trying to catch them.

“ _Hey, if you want to be known as the girl who kills kittens, be my guest_.”

The door suddenly swung open and the Black Widow poked her head inside. He tried to smile and gave a little wave from the tub. She closed the door.

“ _You may have a point_.” He heard her say.

The kittens seemed to be delighted with the water but washing Constance was a battle on its own. She fought and howled, the bathroom amplifying her voice until it sounded like a hundred cats were roaring at him. At one point, Wilson asked he wanted help and swiftly made his retreat when he saw Constance charging at him like a rabid thing.

But all was quiet outside now and he stripped out of his dirty things, the clothes peeling off with a slight sucking sound that made him wince in disgust. He put everything in the sports bag and endeavored to burn it before the day was out.

Having nothing else to wear, he dug in the laundry basket and came up with a running shirt and khakis. They were a little damp but smelled clean—better than clean. He breathed into them before pulling them on, finding them ill-fit on his skinny frame.

The word resonated with him and somehow he knew before the doorknob turned, who it was on the other side of the door.

“Don’t.” He whispered and everything stopped. Mishka ran up to him and jumped into his arms— _arm_ , pressing his warm body against his chest. For a moment, James simply stood and breathed into the wet animal scent of Mishka’s body. They needed to get dry. “I don’t...” he said. “I didn’t know where to go.”

“ _It’s alright_.” The Captain reassured him. “ _I’m... I’m glad_.”

“I need towels.” James said hesitantly as though admitting to something dirty. “And a blow dryer.” He swallowed. “Please.”

“ _Oh, of course... Sam what... Nat..._ ”

“ _...What if..._ ” there was a sound of violent gesture on Wilson’s part.

Steve said sternly, “ _He’s not going to hurt them._ ”

“ _You said that about you and look where you were three weeks ago_.”

A pause.

“ _That was different_.”

“ _Can we agree that it’s a bad idea to give the potentially homicidal, brainwashed, Hydra assassin_ anything _?_ ”

“Not a Hydra assassin.” James muttered, kissing Mishka on the ear.

Mishka meowed in agreement.

“ _You brought him here Tony_.”

“ _He had cats. I was honor bound to rescue them_.”

The door cracked open and he was handed a blow dryer and extra towels. The hand lingered where they touched but eventually, Bucky had to withdraw. His heart pounded as he plugged the blow dryer in with shaky hands, color flooding his cheeks like the Boston ivy in autumn.

Surprisingly, the cats loved the blow dryer and he focused on that. Howard made a nuisance of himself, rolling himself in puddles repeatedly for extra sessions.

“Howard” he snapped, the first time he used his name for the gray feline. Howard inched back guiltily from the tub and sulked. He noticed that things were quiet once again outside.

There was a light thump on the door as someone leaned against the wood, wanting to come in. James slid to the floor; he could hear the target, Captain Rogers, Steve do the same on the other side. They were now sitting back to back, only the thin wooden door as a barrier between them. James thought of a hundred and one ways to kill the target, finish his mission, and discarded them one by one. He threaded his fingers into Constance’s curly fur and began to dry, rubbing her vigorously before a bite to his index finger told him to slow down.

“I didn’t know you liked cats.”

“I don’t.” He said honestly because he wasn’t sure what 'like' was only that it wasn't not hating and went a little deeper than that.

“Where did you even find them?”

“Mishka found me. They followed Mishka. Mishka let them stay so they stay.”

“Mishka” Steve said slowly. “That’s a pretty name.”

He scratched Mishka’s ear, fond.

“He’s a knockout.”

Constance bit him again because Mishka was too close and she hated Mishka.

He swore, letting the blow dryer clatter to the ground.

"That hurt." He told her as she ran off to hide behind the toilet.

“Bucky? Bucky—are you okay?” The doorknob jiggled ominously as though someone was trying to get in but thought better of it. Steve—his cheeks warmed at the thought of the other man staying behind the door for his sake. Constance huffed when he retrieved her, feet paddling the air.

"I'm fine St—, it's fine. We're okay."

“Can I... please Bucky, can I come in?”

Bucky honestly didn't know. He didn't know what to expect when he saw Steve.

He felt elated, relieved, grateful that the other man was alive and well, wondering if the bullets had left their mark. How long had it been since the last time they met face to face? When they weren't trying to kill each other—no, that wasn't right. He was the only one; he had been trying to kill Steve. Steve had been his mission, a different kind from the last. He felt sick and he knocked his forehead against his knees, quivering as he pulled the door open.

Through the curtain of hair, Bucky looked at Steve. The other man's throat bobbed as though he was nervous. He should be. Bucky... he had never been deprogrammed. He knew enough to tear the tracking system from his arm and his spine but attempting to find all the triggers had been impossible. One phrase later and he had woken up the next week, his landlord pounding the door about late payments. The Widow or hell, even Stark, should have put him down when they had the chance.

He noticed that the lights were dim. Perhaps the bulbs from Fury's assassination had never been replaced. He figured the others had regrouped somewhere else, maybe in the kitchen, the most defensible part of the apartment layout, to discuss what they would do with him.

_Stupid_ —he thought.

Steve was all kinds of dumb when he got an idea in his head and they should have been right here to make sure nothing went wrong.

He handed Steve a towel and a kitten, the boy one, and told him “You can help.”

Steve's eyes flitted over the stump of his left arm and Bucky quashed the need to hide it. He was better than that. Steve was better than that.

Bucky was mostly done with the adult cats but the kittens needed more care. He paid extra attention to the runt with his curly fur and pale blue eyes. The kitten squeaked at him, pink mouth hinging open and closed. “Are you tired _Szczepan_?”

“Huh?”

James blinked and turned his gaze to Steve.

“You look tired.” He repeated and Steve gave him a wan smile.

“Who knew taking down an international organization would take so much paperwork?”

“Ça pourrait être pire.” He shrugged.

“Ouais,” Steve reached out and cupped his face. “But then I found you.”

He turned away. Steve let him.

“You saved me.”

“You would have done the same.” Bucky replied automatically. He glared from under the mat of hair. “You shouldn’t.”

“Jerk” Steve said lightly, leaning against his back as he held the boy kitten in the air. “Till the end of the line remember?”

Mishka meowed from his side as he dabbed at his face, blotting out his tears.

Steve laced their fingers together, broad hand dwarfing his own.

Bucky let the tears fall.

He felt happy; he could only describe the foreign emotion as happiness and no one could tell him otherwise. Not Hydra, not Shield, not his handlers or doctors who wiped him for a single toe out of the line. Not even Steve.

“Welcome home Buck.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some visual references--
> 
> Mishka: [Maine Coon](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5a/Maine_Coon_cat_by_Tomitheos.JPG)  
> Howard: [Chartreux](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/57/Chartreux-Bonheur-nuits_indiennes-neige2009.jpg)  
> Constance: [Devon rex](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/67/Devonrex_cat.jpg)
> 
> HIGHLY unlikely these cats are hanging out together in DC but lets chalk it up to fate shall we ;D


End file.
